Phantom Planet
by Theater Raven
Summary: What if there was a TV channel dedicated to all things Phantom?


Author's Note: I own none of the characters from various versions of_ The Phantom of the Opera_. And yes, there is no such channel as Phantom Planet (but there should be).

**Phantom Planet**

_Saturday, 9:00 p. m. Pacific Standard Time_

Clicking on the television, the viewer sees a table. Red and black draperies hang behind it for dramatic purposes. A young woman dressed in blue jeans and a black shirt with the mask and rose logo from the Lloyd Webber stage musical version on it sits down at the table and arranges some note cards, then glances up into the camera, her large silver hoop earrings swinging as she does so.

"Hello," she says, "My name is Anne, and welcome to another thrilling episode of . . . well, since you're watching now, you probably already know the name of this show, so there's no need for me to state the title, now is there?

Anyway, we have a show today that, for what it will certainly lack in interesting stories, it will make up for with comedy. And we have a very, very special guest today—we were lucky to book him because he's such the center of such a hot topic. So, everybody, let's give a big this-show's-title-here welcome to . . . Erik Mulheim!"

There is polite applause as the guest walks onto the set. He is wearing a faded, very dull business suit and his mask is equally as boring and dull. He carries a briefcase. He sits down in the chair across from Anne.

"Hi, Erik!" she says, trying to be excited to see him and friendly, a too-sweet-to-be-real smile on her face.

"That's Dr. Mulheim to you," he replies dryly, setting his briefcase down on the table, opening it, and pulling out an apple, which he begins to eat.

"Really?"

"Yes—I received my PhD from Harvard in economics."

" . . . Not music?"

Mulheim—err, _Dr._ Mulheim—glances at Anne as if she were a chimpanzee that just screeched at him.

"No," he says, tossing the unfinished apple over his shoulder.

"Okay. What about history? After all, your opera _does_ take place during the American Civil War."

"I minored in history."

"I see. So, Doctor, how do you like Manhattan?"

"It's full of disgusting, parasitic creatures."

"You mean rats and cockroaches?"

"No, I mean my business competition."

"Oh. Well, did you have any interesting fellow students at Harvard?"

At this point, _Dr._ Mulheim goes into a very long, drawn out monologue in order to answer Anne's question. His voice is increasingly beginning to remind the viewer of the economics teacher from_ Ferris Bueller's Day Off_. At first, Anne pretends to be interested. Then, she begins to nod off and eventually shows her_ lack _of interest by ordering a pizza whilst the monologue is still in progress. The pizza arrives and Anne begins to eat. The monologue finally ends.

"Pizza?" offers Anne, holding up a slice.

"I do not partake in such artery-clogging, greasy, middle-class food."

"Fine, your loss."

"If you don't mind my saying so—."

"Which I probably will, since everything that comes out of your mouth is despised by all Phans—."

"—you are the rudest, most incompetent hostess it has ever been my displeasure to come across."

"What about Christine? Let's talk about _her_."

Anne grins, certain she has him ready to explode into a rage now.

"She's pretty," is the flat reply.

Anne stares at him. She drops her pizza slice, a half-chewed bite falling from her open mouth.

"She's pretty? She's _pretty_?"

She jumps from her chair and grabs Dr. Erik Mulheim by the shirt collar.

"We're talking about_ Christine_ and all you can say is, 'She's pretty?' What the hell is _wrong_ with you, man? You're a _Phantom_! She's_ Christine_! Do you have the slightest idea what should be going on in your head when I say that name? Do you?_ Do you?_"

Mulheim stares, his lackluster brown eyes blinking slowly. There is a pause.

". . . No. And please, young lady, let go of me. You'll wrinkle my suit and it's dry clean only."

Anne slaps him.

"Stop saying such fop-esque things, you _imbecile_!"

"Well, quite frankly, I don't get your point. And I don't appreciate you grabbing me in such an unprofessional, undignified—."

"Oh, for the love of masks and roses,_ this_ is what you should be thinking about!"

Anne looks directly into the camera.

"For all my fellow Phans out there, what I am about to do may be quite dangerous and considered the lowest of the low, considering who this incarnation of Erik actually is, but, it's for the sake of _an_ Erik, nonetheless!"

And the screen is flashed with a happy, dancing "Please Stand By" cartoon character for over an hour.

Once he goes away, we can see the studio again. Anne is sitting in the corner, in the fetal position, rocking to and fro and muttering incomprehensible things to herself, hugging her knees to her chest. For a moment, it looks as if no one is behind the desk. Then, Mulheim stands up, looking completely different—his hair is tousled, his dress shirt is off-kilter by a few buttons, it looks as if his face is clammy, and his eyes are now flaming with desire. Anne looks at the camera.

". . . And join us tomorrow for our discussion of . . ."

She bursts into tears and then gasps in horror as Mulheim dims the set lights and starts walking in her direction.

"You have no one to blame but yourself, my dear," he says, his previous dull voice now gone and a sensual one in its place, "You opened that can of worms—and I _like_ what I saw . . . or should I say_ felt_ . . ."

We can hear Anne's horrified squeal in the increasing darkness and another happy, dancing "Please Stand By" character appears.


End file.
